


Flight

by Sparkle_Free



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:56:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkle_Free/pseuds/Sparkle_Free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes has been framed for two brutal murders and he, Mary and Watson must go into hiding and try to discover the true meaning behind the crimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Holmes knelt in the bushes, careful not to make any sound. The body was farther away than he would have liked, but Watson would be arriving any second and he would be much harder to deceive than the average Yarder. He would have to wait until Watson was alone to reveal himself. Still, he would be able to hear the conversation well enough, even if he couldn't get a closer view of the examination.

His heart leapt into his throat when a hansom slowed to a stop and Clarky hurried over to speak to the two men. Lestrade climbed down first and casually took Watson's elbow as he stepped down. Holmes's insides clenched.

The body was sprawled on the pavement, her arms and legs sticking out in awkward angles. Watson knelt down next to it with a grimace and began to work. Lestrade hovered behind him while Clarky went to clear away the crowd that was forming.

"Time of death, approximately ten hours ago," Watson said. He looked around in agitation as he continued his examination.

"Where _is_ Holmes?" he muttered irritably. "Surely he must have received your telegram by now." Holmes's stomach rolled. From the pained and saddened look on Lestrade's face, he knew the man didn't relish the next development the way he'd expected. Then again, no one _liked_ to hurt the doctor, no matter how they felt about Sherlock Holmes. He inspired a feeling of trust in people the moment he met them.

"Dr. Watson, I must confess something to you," he began. He straightened his uniform and brushed off non-existent specks of dust until Watson fixed him with a deadly stare.

"Yes?" he said, as much a warning as a question.

"We, well, that is," he exhaled slowly and visibly pulled himself back together, stood up straighter, to give the news, "We have every reason to believe this murder was committed by Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There's a warrant out for his arrest, sir."

Any other time Holmes might have laughed at Lestrade's desperately formal way of addressing Watson, but he was too focused on the man's reactions to notice fully. Watson, to his credit, squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, bit his lip for a mere second longer than that, and was re-composed once more. "What evidence do you have?"

"Well, first, she's a suspect in the McMurdon case. Holmes was working it, and seemed rather bent, if you don't mind me saying so, on her guilt; though he had nothing to go on."

"_That_ would not drive Sherlock Holmes to _murder_," he spat the last word, and took another moment to collect himself. "What else?"

"Well," Lestrade rummaged through his pockets, "this was found over there," he nodded toward the bushes on the opposite side of the lane as Holmes himself. It glinted in the light for a moment, then Holmes could make out the familiar form of his cigarette case that had gone missing the evening prior. Watson turned it over in his hands, obviously considering. Holmes knew it could not be faked, not to Watson.

A sad smile crossed Watson's face. He slipped the case into his pocket and looked at Lestrade. "Why did you bring me here?"

"I needed a doctor to examine the body -"

"- which any police surgeon could have done," Watson interrupted. "Why did you bring _me_ here?"

Lestrade took a deep breath. "I needed you to see this," he admitted. He reached out and gripped Watson by the elbow; Holmes felt a flash of possessiveness rip through him once more. "No one knows him like you do, doctor. I need you to see that he _is_ capable of this, because if anyone has any chance of finding him, it's you."

There was a long, tense silence. Holmes held his breath, waiting with every beat of his heart for Watson to storm away, tell him he was crazy, his best friend wasn't capable of this; but with every passing second those scenarios seemed less likely. Finally, Watson let out a deep breath, and it felt like he'd forced the air from both their lungs.

"What do we do, then?" he said, determined. Lestrade clapped him on the arm with a grim satisfaction.

"Good man," was all he said.

Shock coursed through him. That the official police force could think him capable of a gruesome murder didn't bother him; he knew he was considered unhinged on the best of days, so it came as no surprise that they thought him capable of flaying a woman on his worst. But that Watson - the man who knew him better than anyone, and had trusted him with his life - could so readily accept the idea sickened him. Though he knew the dangers, and what he might gain by staying, he carefully slunk away until he was far enough away to break into a blind run. He didn't know where he was going; just as far from Lestrade and Watson as his legs could carry him seemed an admirable enough goal at the moment.

Once he'd exhausted his nervous energy, he shut himself into his nearest bolt-hole - an attic over a run down tavern. That owner didn't care what he did with it as long as he paid two shillings a week. He was aware the owner thought him daft for paying for the space only to leave it either empty or a temporary home for an Irregular, but money was money, and she kept it relatively clean and didn't seem to notice at all when he slunk in that afternoon to lick his wounds in peace.

Wiggins appeared not long after - the boy would make an admirable detective himself someday, Holmes predicted - a solemn look marring his young face.

"It's a bad business, Mr. Holmes, ain't no mistake," he said gravely. "An' young Henry reckons he saw the doctor with the Yard this afternoon, askin' questions. Wha'do you need us to do?" he puffed up, awaiting his orders.

"Just a drink, for now," he fumbled in his pocket and tossed the boy the first coin he found. "Whiskey will do. Whatever you can get." He looked crestfallen for a moment, then pulled himself back up determinately. "Right," and then he was gone.

Holmes buried his head in his hands and groaned. Every time he tried to focus on the body, the clumsily planted evidence, Watson's face - sad, but determined - would flash in his mind. He felt as though all the threads were laid out in front of him, and if he could just banish that image he'd be able to grasp them at last.

Wiggins knocked on the door and stepped inside, a large bottle of whiskey in one hand and a wrapped sandwich in the other. He passed the bottle to Holmes, then held out the sandwich. Holmes eyed it, but didn't reach out for it.

"I got it from the lady downstairs," he said. "You look a bit peaked, sir, if you don't mind me saying," he shook the sandwich slightly, indicating for him to take it. Holmes grudgingly grabbed it and waved the boy away. As soon as the door closed behind him, Holmes tossed the sandwich in the trash and quickly went about trying to forget.

\-----

He wasn't sure how many days went by that way; every day, a few of his most trusted Irregulars would bring him whatever they could: bread, newspapers, drink. Everything seemed to blur together, and even once he ran out of coins in his pockets they continued to show up, every day, all sad smiles and hopeful suggestions.

It was dark when he awoke to the sound of raised voices in the pub downstairs. Bar fights he was learning to sleep through, but these weren't the sounds of brawling drunkards. It sounded like someone was barking orders, and with a thrill of fear, Holmes pushed himself to his feet and crept toward the tiny attic window.

He adjusted the slats for a moment before he peeked out. Luckily, his small window faced the street. He could make out four police carriages in the street; he felt strangely touched that they assumed so many men would be needed in apprehending him. He thought briefly of his revolver, tucked away beneath the dusty mattress; but once that card was played, there was no going back - it was kill or be killed, and he was certain they were more heavily armed than he was.

He crept over to the door and stood next to it, completely silent. It was only a matter of seconds before hands were pounding on it from the outside.

"Sherlock Holmes, open this door!" a man yelled. Holmes resisted the urge to snort. As though he were a petulant child to be ordered about, instead of an accused murderer. A single shot whistled through the lock, causing him to jump, just as three officers tumbled inside. The man nearest to him recovered himself first. "Right," he cleared his throat. "Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest," he squared his shoulders and reached out to grip Holmes's arm. Whatever else he was going to say was lost however, since at that moment Holmes chose to headbutt him, driving him to the floor. He dived at the second Yarder, a swift punch to the kidney forcing him to his knees, gasping. It wasn't the best course of action, Holmes would readily admit, but it was a solution within his grasp in his current state. He pulled back to knock the second man unconscious. It was only when he was struck with a sharp blow to the back of the head that he realized that maybe he should have considered his other options. Then, he knew no more.

\-----

He awoke to a searing pain in the back of his head. For a moment he pressed his head closer to the warm softness beneath him, shuddering. Then he started to reach to feel how bad the wound was, but a gentle hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Lie still, Holmes," a voice said gently. "You've got a small gash back here; I still need to stitch it. I'm sorry you awoke so early, in fact."

"Watson?" he breathed, not daring to believe. He tried to look around the room he was in, but a hand on the side of his head held him still.

"Yes of course it's me," he could hear the affection in his voice. "Who else would it be? Now lie still. I'll be done in just a moment, and then we can figure out what's to be done." It took him several seconds longer than it should have to process that statement. As he came to himself more he realized from the angle they were at that his head was lying in Watson's lap.

Holmes blinked in confusion, thinking about that Watson had said. Was to be done about what? He grunted as Watson began to stitch him up.

"Watson," he said, careful not to move, "What's happened?"

The stitching slowed for a moment. "You've been accused of murder," he said finally.

"I remember that much," he said. "But... you were working with the police. You know what's to be done. I'm to be hanged, most likely."

"No!" he tugged the stitch too tight, and Holmes whimpered. In an instant fingers were soothing over his brow and hairline. "I'm sorry," Watson whispered. Holmes reached up and grasped his hand. They stayed that way for several seconds, each taking comfort in the others presence. "I won't let that happen," Watson said finally.

"I don't know if you'll have much say in it," Holmes said. "You're an awfully biased witness, after all."

"That's true," he replied. "Hush now; let me finish."

They sat in silence while Watson finished up his stitches and carefully bandaged his head.

"How do you feel?" Watson asked. Holmes rolled carefully on his back and looked up at his friend, who was bent over him, concerned. For a moment, he let himself just drink in the sight of his handsome face; being able to look upon his friend soothed and calmed him like nothing else. Watson stared back for several seconds, relief flooding his expressive face. Finally he broke eye contact to pull his medical bag closer. He shined a light in Holmes's eyes, checking his pupils. "You don't seem to be concussed; that's a miracle, given how hard the brute hit you."

Holmes sat up and rolled his shoulders, shook his head from side to side. "Apart from slightly blurred vision, I seem to be fine," he said. He pushed himself to his feet and swayed slightly. Watson stepped forward immediately to wrap a warm arm around his waist. Holmes already was already beginning to feel steady enough on his feet, but slid an arm around Watson's shoulders anyway. To be able to feel those firm muscles under his fingers again felt like a dream come true.

"Will you be able to walk?" Watson asked.

"To the gallows? Most likely," Holmes joked.

"That's not funny," Watson chided him.

"I'm sorry."

"There's a cab waiting outside, courtesy of your brother. He wants word immediately, of course. He said the cabbie would know where to go; we just need to get out there."

"I don't suppose they're going to let us just walk out of here. And I don't think I'll be up to any fighting," Holmes confessed.

"Leave the fighting to me," Watson muttered darkly.

"Don't hurt them too badly, mother hen," Holmes muttered. "They're just doing their jobs, after all."

Watson grunted his assent and threw open the door. The guard on the other side looked startled.

"We're leaving now," Watson informed him. The guard wavered for a moment, obviously unsure.

"You can't take him out of that room, sir," he said finally. He started to reach for his gun, and in one fluid movement Watson had drawn his own revolver and leveled it at the man's face.

"We're leaving now," Watson repeated slowly. The guard's eyes narrowed, but he raised his hands in the air. They inched around him slowly, then Watson was tugging Holmes by his wrist down a long corridor away from the front of the building. "Watson..." Holmes started, but Watson cut him off.

"This will take us straight to the cab," he called over his shoulder. "It's waiting out back. Come on!" he tugged harder and Holmes stumbled slightly. Shouts echoed down the corridor behind them. They skid around another corner. Holmes's shoulder slammed into the wall and he grunted in pain. Watson urged him forward.

"There's the door!" He pointed to the far end of the hall. They were halfway to it when a door to their right opened and a man dashed through, barring their way. He stared at them for a moment, startled. Watson caught a glimpse of his face and grinned suddenly, though it looked to Holmes more like a wild animal baring it's teeth.

"Just the man I was hoping to see," he said lowly. Holmes peered closer and realized this must be the man responsible for the stitches in his head. The man pulled his gun and before Holmes could blink had it leveled at Watson's chest.

"I told them not to trust you," he said, face twisted in disgust. Watson merely continued to smile. Then, in one lightning-quick movement he sprang forward and struck viciously at the man's wrist with his cane; there was a loud crack and a sharp cry of pain; the gun clattered to the ground harmlessly. Watson kicked it back, past Holmes. The man fell to one knee, arm cradled close to his body. Holmes could hear footsteps approaching. He stepped forward and gripped Watson by the shoulder.

"We have to leave," he told him. Watson nodded, never taking his eyes off the man in front of them. He raised his cane one more time for good measure, but Holmes caught it. Watson turned to look him in the eye, questioning. "No," was all Holmes said. Watson held his gaze another moment, then nodded. Together they ran the rest of the corridor and out into the cool night.


	2. Chapter 2

"I'd have thought Mycroft would at least arrange for nicer quarters," Watson grumbled. Holmes looked around the small one room attic, thrilled. It was one of his most obscure hideouts, and to him, it was as beautiful as any grand hotel would be, as long as they were together.

"Nicer is more conspicuous," Holmes said airily. "We could be in any attic, back room or lumber room in London right now, as far as the police know."

"That's true," Watson admitted. He turned his face away slightly, and Holmes frowned at his expression.

"What is bothering you, Watson?"

Watson turned to look at him in disbelief, then let out a dry, humorless laugh. "What's bothering me? I break you out of prison, assault a member of the Yard, go into hiding with you, and you ask what's bothering me?" He crossed to the table and sat. Holmes scrutinized him from across the room.

"Yes, those are all admirable reasons to be in an agitated state, I grant; indeed, the most interesting thing is that none of those are, in fact, the cause of your distress."

Watson gave him one last exasperated look before he dropped his head to stare at the floor. Holmes was at his side in an instant.

"Why aren't you angry?" he asked finally.

"Ah," Holmes said, finally realizing. He was about to speak again when Watson looked up in disbelief.

"'Ah'? _That's_ your reaction? I led a police man hunt for you! You have every right to hate me, yet obviously you don't. Why is that?"

Holmes thought for a moment. There were several answers he could think of to that question, but he discarded them one by one as inappropriate given their current situation. "Why did you help with the investigation?" he asked instead.

"Because it was the easiest way to gain access to the file on this case and find you," Watson replied. "The police find your cigarette case at the scene of a gruesome murder of a woman whom you suspected to have murdered several others. No one, not Mrs. Hudson or your brother or even me, knows where you were or where you've gone. What do you expect them to think?"

"That I murdered her, of course. But that is not what you thought," it was not a question.

"No. I thought, 'If Sherlock Holmes did this, he would not carry anything in his pockets that could fall out easily; he would have mentally cataloged what he did bring, and if something were discovered missing he would return to retrieve it immediately, yet the woman had been dead ten hours.'" Watson ran his hands through his hair, suddenly distressed. "My God, Holmes, I'm so sorry..." he trailed off guiltily.

Holmes waved him off. "Watson, do you realize what this means? You can't go back now. Not until this is over."

"I know, Holmes. I knew when it started," he said. He squared his shoulders and turned to face Holmes, determined. "We'll see it through. Together. Just like we always have."

"And what of the newly-minted Mrs. Watson?"

"She's not in danger, Holmes, you are," Watson growled. His brow darkened. "I would never abandon you like that."

Abandon. It was such a simple word, so appropriate in so many ways, yet with the man himself sitting across from him, Holmes could no longer apply it to them. "You'd abandon _her_, then?" he said finally. Watson glared.

"That was an unworthy remark, Holmes, and you know it. When you need me, I am here. Mary knows that. I don't think she'd have married me if she thought me the kind of man to desert a friend like you."

"That's very touching." They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Watson finally jumped to his feet and started pacing the cramped room. Holmes cleared his throat. "You said you had access to the files."

Watson pulled a leaf of papers from his jacket pocket, then tossed them to Holmes and resumed pacing. "My God Holmes, _why_ would someone do this to you?"

Holmes flipped open the file to study it and ignore his friend for a moment. There was a second file, as well; a murder committed just over a month prior. The details were the same, and the murderer had not been caught. There had been nothing planted to attach him to the crime. It seemed they'd been building up to his inclusion. "What was this one suspected of?" he asked as he poured over her autopsy.

"She was once suspected for arson."

"I see. But I didn't handle her case."

"No. In fact, her name didn't even end up in the official report of that case. Gregson worked it, and remembered her face."

"And how does he suppose _I_ knew this fact?"

"Everyone just assumes you know everything by now, Holmes," Watson sighed.

Holmes humphed. "And it usually works in my favor, too," he grumbled. He sat the files on the table and closed his eyes, visualizing the crime scenes.

\-----

"...lmes, Holmes," Blinking, Holmes looked up to see Watson leaning over him. "Welcome back, dear fellow. I was just telling you, I'm exhausted. I need to get some sleep."

Holmes looked around, still trying to bring himself back to the cramped room they were hiding out in. "Of course. Don't let me stop you." He closed his eyes again and shifted focus.

"Holmes," Watson repeated.

"Yes?" he was beginning to get irritated.

"There's only one bed."

"My apologies; I didn't expect to have company." He closed his eyes and returned to the problem at hand. Finally, he heard Watson sigh and move away from him.

When Holmes blinked out of his revere again it was still pitch black outside. He stood and stretched with a sigh of frustration. He needed more information; there were far too many unknowns to puzzle out a meaning. The only thing he could be reasonably sure of was that someone wanted him out of the way temporarily - and he was fairly certain of who that person was. Beyond that, he had nothing.

He turned to the bed with a sigh and pushed back the blankets on the side closest to him. Watson was stretched out on one side, leaving Holmes plenty of room to slip under the bedding. He managed to restrain himself to lying on his back and staring at the ceiling for what felt to him like an admirable amount of time. Two minutes later, he rolled onto his side to look at his friend. His face slack in sleep, he appeared so much younger than he did when awake. All of the tension lines faded away to nothingness. Holmes reached out and gently traced his brow where he knew it to be permanently creased in wakefulness. Watson sighed and shifted closer until his forehead was pressed against Holmes's chest, knees curled up and bumping against Holmes's own. Hesitantly, Holmes slid an arm over Watson's shoulder, and drifted off to sleep.

\-----

When Holmes awoke the next morning the first thing he was aware of was a hard weight on his chest. Second, the heat that seemed to engulf the left half of his body. He opened his eyes cautiously.

Watson was laying curled up against him, head pillowed on his chest. Warmth flooded through him, and he couldn't help but slowly slide one arm over Watson's waist, the other moving to thread through his hair. He pet him gently and was rewarded when Watson snuggled closer with a sigh.

Here in the early morning, Holmes watched him sleep and admitted to himself he would be very sorry when this ordeal came to an end.

Watson stirred a few minutes later. He tensed at first, but Holmes continued to thread his fingers through his hair, and he slowly relaxed.

"How long have you been awake?" Watson asked, voice scratchy.

"Just a few minutes," Holmes replied.

"You could have moved me." He stayed in place.

"You were comfortable," Holmes smiled. Watson tilted his head to look up at him and smiled back sleepily. Holmes felt his breath hitch. Watson pressed his head into Holmes's fingers, eyes half lidded. Holmes tilted his head down; it would only take an inch to kiss him -

A knock on the door broke the spell; cursing and blushing, they rolled away from each other. Holmes recovered first and straightened out his clothes as he crossed the room, muttering darkly. With a final glance to make sure Watson was ready, gun in hand, he carefully opened the door.

Mary stood in the doorway, clutching a canvas bag in front of her with a smile.

"The police came to the door today," she said by way of explanation. "They warned me that if you were in the house, I would be harboring fugitives."

"Mary?" Watson asked skeptically. Holmes opened the door fully and allowed her inside, still in shock. She sat down the bag and began placing dishes on the table.

"I thought, even fugitives need tea. And clean clothes," she nodded to the bag. "They're all John's, but I imagine that suits you better, anyway." She said to Holmes with a smile.

"But how did you find us?" He closed the door and walked over to the small table where she was pouring two cups of tea. Watson walked over to her other side and rested a hand on the small of her back.

"I went round to Baker Street and paid the first boy I saw a shilling to take me to a boy named Wiggins. I remembered you talking about him, John, and saying Mr. Holmes had put him in charge of the boys. I told him I needed to find you, and it took all I had to convince him I was looking to help you. Oh, don't look like that, Mr. Holmes; those boys are as protective of you as they would be a father, if they had them." She turned and handed them each a cup.

Holmes couldn't help but grudgingly respect her efficient method of tracking him. He eyed her for a moment, contemplative. Watson was watching them both with a small smile tugging at his lips. Mary held his gaze, chin lifted in an almost defiant manner.

"What?" she said finally.

Holmes turned to Watson. "Three months of courtship, two weeks of marriage, and you manage to cultivate a wife more capable of detective work than all of the Yard," he said. "The Irregulars have been keeping me up to speed on police inquires regarding me; however, not one of them has been directly questioned as to my whereabouts."

"I cultivated nothing," Watson said with pride. He smiled at Mary and reached to grab her hand. "She's always been brilliant."

Mary squeezed his hand appreciatively, then moved to sit in the nearest chair. "Now, please tell me: what has happened?" she asked.

"Mary, this is hardly a story fit for a lady," Watson objected. Holmes waved his protests away and sat across from her, elbows on his knees. If she wished to be included, she would have to deal with the consequences. Watson sighed and leaned against Mary's chair, resigned.

Holmes quickly reiterated the stories of the murders, not shying away from describing the condition the bodies had been found in, even when Watson protested. Mary, to her credit, paled only slightly, but her brow furrowed in contemplation as she focused. When he'd finished the story, they sat in silence for several seconds.

Mary frowned. "That's... horrifying. But I still don't understand. What links them to you?"

"My cigarette case was found at the scene of the second murder; I had been attempting to prove her guilt in several murder cases, as well."

Mary was still watching him as though waiting for the rest of the facts. When he simply looked back at her, she frowned. Finally, she said, "They accept that you left a _monogrammed_ piece of evidence at a crime scene?"

At that the absurdity of the situation finally hit him completely, and he leaned forward and laughed until tears came to his eyes and Watson and Mary were both shaking with sympathetic laughter as well. Once he'd managed to get himself under control once more, Holmes turned to Mary. She was smiling at him fondly, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"Mary, you must return home soon." Her smile fell instantly, and he hurried on, "In all likely hood your home is being watched, and extended absences at this time will only raise further suspicions."

They both looked crestfallen. Watson turned to Mary and squeezed her hand. "He's right," he admitted, "It is for the best."

She nodded. "Alright. I'll return tomorrow -"

"No," Holmes interrupted. She looked at him, a pleading look in her eyes. He felt a stab of guilt. "It's too dangerous. We may be able to send messages on occasion, but visiting is out of the question."

Watson reluctantly led Mary to the door, and Holmes turned away slightly to give them some semblance of privacy. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Watson kissed her gently and leaned back fractionally. They murmured soft words, Mary's worried gaze occasionally flickering between the two men. Finally, they kissed once more, and Watson shut the door behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few days passed in a tense, companionable way that was familiar to both of them. Holmes was growing restless, frustrated by the lack of clues and restrictions to his own freedom.

They had also grown accustomed to waking up tangled together. Watson said nothing of this development, and Holmes had no idea how to broach the subject, so he just accepted it for what it was. He didn't linger in bed after the first morning, however.

It was three days later when a sudden knock drew them from their thoughts. Holmes pulled open the door. Wiggins stood there, Mary standing slightly behind him. He looked her over once: she was wearing a man's shirt, slightly too big around the neck, her collarbones revealed. The sleeves were rolled up, bunched around her thin wrists. The vest clung to her chest awkwardly. The trousers were held up with a thick belt and pinned up at the bottom to reveal black boots. She was clutching the same canvas bag as before. He turned to Wiggins with a glare.

"What on earth did you bring her here for?" he barked at Wiggins. "It's dangerous enough with you coming and going."

"She was bein' watched," Wiggins said.

"By the police? Yes, we'd anticipated that development."

"No sir. Not the police." Holmes took a moment to process the implications of that statement.

"I see."

"Jerry reported yesterday that there'd been a man watching the house fer two days now. So I sent Ralph to the house dressed up like a pageboy, an' he took her to the nearest bolt-hole where she changed. Then she n' I came here."

"And you're sure you weren't followed?" Holmes asked sharply.

"Yes sir."

"I suppose you gave her the clothes, then?"

"No sir. Ralph said she had 'em."

"I thought something might happen," Mary confessed, "and I was afraid I'd end up trying to run away in petticoats and skirts."

Watson leaned closer to inspect her clothing. "Are those my clothes?" he said, indignant.

"I altered them slightly. I bought new shoes, though. Yours didn't fit," she responded.

"Yes, I have to buy my own as well," Holmes responded. "Watson's feet are surprisingly large for a man of his stature."

Watson threw his hands up in the air. "Is _everyone_ wearing my clothes?" he cried.

"Between the three of us, your entire wardrobe is here," Mary said. Holmes chuckled at that; Watson glared at him and he quickly turned it into a cough.

"And since most of your clothing and accessories have been left behind, when they eventually do search the house it won't look like a planned flight. Well done, Mary," Holmes said. He shifted uncomfortably, flushing, when she stared at him in undisguised shock and happiness.

"Now, Wiggins," he cleared his throat and turned back to the boy. "This is important. Did Ralph tell you if he paid particular attention to Mrs. Watson upon leaving?"

"No more than the maids, 'e said," Wiggins shook his head.

"Good. Report back if the man stops watching their home. Also," he walked to the small desk and scribbled a note, "Take these instructions back to the household. It's imperative they continue with their daily routines and not report Mrs. Watson's disappearance to the police."

"Yes sir."

"That will buy us some time on that front," Holmes said once Wiggins had left. He turned and began to pace. "Inevitably the police will -" he was cut off by Mary's stomach growling. She put her hands on her stomach and blushed.

"When was the last time you ate?" Watson admonished her. It was such a _Watson_-ish question that Holmes had to grin.

"Last night," she admitted. "I've been too nervous."

Watson patted her on the shoulder. "I'll see if I can catch Wiggins at the door and have him send a boy 'round with food." With that, he was gone.

Holmes and Mary regarded each other for a moment. Then she reached into her bag and rummaged around.

"I didn't have much time to pack," she was saying, "but I did manage to grab a few things." She pulled a roll of gauze from her bag and nodded to his head. He reached up to touch the old bandage. Truthfully, he didn't think the wound needed bandaging at this point, and he should probably let Watson examine the stitches, but he found himself sinking into the chair and letting her carefully peel off the old bandage. She ran her hands through his hair absently and he was reminded vividly of waking with her husband in his arms. It produced a strange effect in him; arousal, guilt, affection. He drew a deep, shaky breath.

She pulled her hand away. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, no," he assured her. She began carefully winding a fresh bandage, pushing his hair this way and that to make sure she was covering the stitches. He cast his eyes over the room, looking for something to take his mind off of her hands; his eyes settled on the bed. "There's only one bed," he blurted.

Mary chuckled. "We'll make it work. John will just have to be in the middle, that's all."

He bit his lip. That wasn't helping.

"It's not a very big bed," he croaked. "And -"

"_Sherlock,_" she said, sounding both stern and amused. Her hand tightened in his hair and tugged gently until he was looking back at her. "You're not getting rid of me," she told him.

For the first time, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

\-----

Watson appeared at the top of the stairs a few minutes later bearing a small tray of cold sandwiches. He and Mary sat at the table while Holmes sat on the bed with legs crossed, observing them. They ate in companionable silence. Mary poured tea and passed around cups. Holmes wondered if he'd be able to smoke.

As though reading his thoughts, Watson stood and carried their pipes over to the bed while Mary cleared away the remains of dinner. They sat next to each other, sides just barely touching, as they smoked and contemplated this new development. Mary rinsed the dishes as best she could in a small basin of water, then crossed the room to sit with them.

"Are you tired?" Watson asked her. She looked at them, eyelids drooping.

"It's been a very long day," she confessed.

"Lie down, then," Watson stood and Holmes scrambled away from the bed. "Holmes?" Watson looked at him questioningly.

"I'm not tired quite yet, old boy. You two turn in, I'll join you later," he was proud that his voice didn't waver in the slightest.

"Alright," Watson yawned. "Good night Holmes."

"Good night," Holmes nodded to both of them. Mary smiled sleepily at him. Holmes watched from the chair as they climbed into the bed, and didn't dare to lay down until they had both drifted into a deep sleep.

\-----

Soft sounds drew him toward wakefulness. He lay perfectly still as he came back to himself, trying to place the sounds he was hearing. Heavy breaths, the sound of cloth gliding over cloth, soft wet noises. Finally, he opened his eyes just a fraction to see Watson seated at one of the rickety chairs, Mary straddling his thighs.

The light from the candle on the table flickered over their features, softening them as they kissed ardently. Mary rocked against him and they groaned into each other's mouths. He stared, unable to tear his eyes away as Watson's hands ghosted gently over her back, coming to rest on her backside and urging her down. His mouth was suddenly very dry; he swallowed and licked his lips as he watched their hands moving, stroking, pressing through their clothing. She reached between them and fumbled with his flies. He seemed at a loss for a moment, looking at the front of her trousers, before he reached to do the same. She pulled him free and stroked him, drawing a soft, strangled groan from him. He tugged at the waist of her trousers.

"You'll need to take these off one leg," he panted. She stood and he helped her slide them off. The instant he was leaning back in the chair once more she straddled him. A flash of heat went through him at the sight of Watson's cock standing stiff before she impaled herself on it with a satisfied whimper. They stayed perfectly still for several seconds, then Mary began shifting her hips slightly, Watson rocking under her and encouraging her with hands on her hips. His own member swelled, painfully constricted in his trousers.

For some reason it didn't feel strange, watching them like this. From this angle they appeared fully dressed; only their flushed faces and hurried breaths seeming out of place.

Their movements became frantic, messy. Mary began making a soft mewing noise in the back of her throat. Holmes fought the urge to shift as his cock throbbed insistently at the sight. Mary threw her head back, cheeks flushed and swollen, red lips parted. Watson gasped but his eyes never left her face, watching closely. The intensity in his gaze made Holmes bite his lip in frustration. Pleasure was building at the base of his spine, and he risked shifting his arm enough to palm at his cock through his trousers. He rubbed his thumb over the wet patch that was forming there and fought the urge to hiss in pleasure. Mary was nearly crying in frustration, bucking wildly against Watson. Finally, she gasped and let out a small whine, grinding down and shuddering. Holmes bit back a moan as his cock twitched in sympathy. Panting slightly, he forced his hand away. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to Watson's.

"You didn't," she said, when she'd caught her breath.

Watson ran his fingertips against her cheek. "It's alright," he whispered. "This was for you. Shh."

Holmes shut his eyes and carefully shifted onto his stomach. All movement stopped when he did so, but he simply laid still and after a few moments they started murmuring again.

"I like you in these clothes," Watson confessed. Mary chuckled. Holmes took a deep steadying breath and tried to resist grinding his throbbing erection into the mattress.

"I like wearing them, too," Mary said shyly. Holmes bit his lip again, them resumed taking deep breaths. Slowly his erection subsided, leaving him feeling only strangely satisfied, if unfulfilled. Finally he heard cloth rustling, indicating they were setting themselves to rights. After several seconds the mattress dipped and two warm bodies were crowding against his side. The sweet smell of Mary's perfume and Watson's cigars overtook him, and he suddenly realized he was very tired.


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes closed the door behind their visitor just as Mary stirred the next morning. Her hair had fallen down around her shoulders in stark contrast with the men's clothing she still wore. It gave her an oddly appealing allure.

"Good morning," she yawned behind her hand. Watson sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"The Irregulars have discovered the name of the man watching your home," Holmes announced.

"What?" Watson threw back the covers and stood. "How?"

"Young Ralph followed him back to this address," Holmes handed Watson the letter. "A few questions in the area and they had the name of the man who owns the estate and a description of him, as well. This Mr. Cartwright is our foot in the door, so to speak."

"My God Holmes," Watson chuckled. "They're nearly an army of miniature you's. I don't envy London's criminal population in ten to fifteen years."

"Neither do I," Holmes admitted with satisfaction. "Let us hope I have retired by then, lest I perish from boredom in this city. Now," he turned away with a flourish, "I must wire Mycroft this information at once. Since I cannot have access to my usual channels, I will have to rely more heavily than I care to on his assistance."

\-----

"Cartwright is one of Moriarty's agents; I had expected as much. Not much is known of him through official channels, however. He is hosting a ball tomorrow night; I suggest we infiltrate. Mycroft included the description of a Mr. and Mrs. Grant, who are attending due to political obligations and are quite unknown to the party. It will be easy enough to gain entry under their names."

Watson took the description and frowned. "Holmes, I couldn't possibly match this description."

"Quite right; not without considerable cosmetic alteration. I, however, could play the part suitably." Mary and Watson immediately exchanged a look. He looked between them. "Is there a problem?"

"No, not at all," Watson said quickly. "Yes, you're right. Where will we get the clothing, however?"

"Hand me a telegram form, there's a good man."

\-----

The package arrived two hours before the ball started, with a note attached about 'playing house'. Holmes snorted and crumpled it before he pulled out the garments to inspect them.

"Your brother is a generous man," Mary remarked as he handed her the dress. Indeed, the material was the finest quality. Holmes unfolded his suit and ran a hand over it appreciatively, then walked behind the ratty changing screen they'd erected and began to change. He could hear Watson helping Mary into her dress. Once he had his trousers and shirt on, he waited.

"Alright," Mary called. He walked out from behind the screen and stopped for a moment. The dress fit her frame perfectly, a beautiful golden hue that made her complexion shine. Her hair fell in dark rings over her shoulders. Swallowing, he quickly looked away and proceeded to the bed. He slipped into his waistcoat, and suddenly Watson was in front of him, running his fingers over the buttons, gently doing it up for him. Holmes could only stand there transfixed, watching his friend's face. They were standing close enough that he could feel the cool rush of Watson's breath against his collarbone. He shivered involuntarily. Watson finished with the buttons and ran his hands over the shoulders, smoothing the fabric. Once he stepped back, Holmes leaned over and picked up the cuff links. Wordlessly, his heart pounding, he held the box out. Watson's lips quirked as he took it. He held Holmes's wrist loosely in one hand, idly brushing over his pulse point with his thumb as he worked with his other hand. Holmes swallowed and wondered briefly if Watson could feel his heart rate accelerating. He quickly switched to the other, and then stepped back to admire his work.

"What do you think, Mary?" he said over his shoulder. Mary - who had been running a brush through her hair, glanced at them through the small mirror.

"He looks wonderful," she said with a soft smile. Holmes felt himself blush slightly. Watson chuckled. Holmes slipped into his jacket and sat on the bed. He watched, fascinated, as Mary carefully wound her hair on top of her head and held it as Watson began to secure it with the ornate combs Mycroft had sent. Finally he stepped back, satisfied. Holmes rose from the bed and crossed to stand next to Mary.

Watson stood back and admired the two of them. Holmes gently took Mary's left arm with his right and smiled. "How do we look?"

Watson eyed them critically for a moment before he positively beamed. Holmes's chest constricted at the strange look of pride he wore. He glanced at Mary and saw she was pleased, as well. "You look gorgeous, both of you," Watson said. "Hang on..." he walked forward, pulling off his wedding ring. He took Holmes's left hand in his right and gently slid the ring on his finger. Holmes's heart skipped a beat and fluttered back to life. Watson looked up, still holding Holmes's hand in both his own. They stared into each others eyes for a moment, then Watson flushed and stepped back, clearing his throat.

"There," he croaked. "Now it's perfect." Mary's grip on his arm tightened, and he tore his eyes from Watson to see her smiling up at him, face already flushed in excitement.

"We're ready to go, then," she breathed. Holmes turned to look back at Watson, who was still gazing at them both with the same fond expression.

"Watson," he said. Watson started.

"Yes, Holmes."

"You will waylay the Grants carriage long enough for Mary and I to infiltrate and search the house. Are you ready?"

"Yes," two voices answered him. He looked between the two of them for a moment.

"Excellent."

\-----

"Mr. Grant," their host extended his hand. Holmes grasped it firmly and nodded.

"Mr. Cartwright. I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting. This is my wife, Mrs. Grant." Mary smiled and blushed as Cartwright bent to kiss her hand.

"It's always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a lovely lady," he said with a smile. She giggled and drew her hand away. Cartwright turned and smiled at Holmes. "I do hope you have an enjoyable evening," he said.

"As do I," Holmes muttered as Cartwright turned to greet more guests. They allowed themselves to be led inside.

The ballroom was a large, elegantly furnished room with long windows on the left side of the room which let in the last rays of the setting sun. The gold tapestries on the wall glittered, throwing a shining reflection on every corner of the room. The guests milled around, murmuring to each other. Holmes and Mary stopped occasionally to chatter pleasantly with other guests as they made their way to the far corner of the room.

The moment they were there, Holmes looked around once more for good measure and guided her down a corridor with a hand on the small of her back. They peered into rooms as they passed, with little indication they'd been used for anything at all.

"There are so many empty ones," Mary mussed. Holmes silenced her with a finger to the lips and threw open the next door.

It was a well-furnished study. Books lined the walls, a settee had been placed in the middle of the room with a small table next to it. On the far wall, long brown curtains trailed down to the floor, closed tightly against any light. There was a large roll-topped desk in the far corner. He looked around before turning back to Mary. He leaned close and put his lips to her ear. "Go to the end of the hall," he pointed the way they'd came, "and keep watch. I'm going to look around." She nodded once and hurried back the way they'd came.

He immediately turned and crossed to the desk in the corner. He gripped the top and pulled the open it. Locked. He grinned. He knelt down and began to pick the lock when heavy footfalls came from the end of the hall opposite from where Mary was keeping watch. Cursing, he ducked behind the curtains.

The footsteps stopped just outside the door. Just as the handle began to turn, Holmes heard Mary call out, "Oh, there you are Mr. Cartwright. I'm so glad I found you; I seem to have gotten rather lost," she said with an embarrassed laugh.

"Oh, um, Mrs. Grant, was it?" he said, trying and failing to hide his irritation. "If you just go to the end of the hall there, and turn right -"

"Which way?" Mary's footsteps came closer. The doorknob shifted back into place, and Cartwright hurried a few steps toward Mary.

"This way. Why don't I walk you, Mrs. Grant. Where is Mr. Grant, may I ask?"

"Oh, he was involved in political conversation last I saw him. It's all beyond me, I'm afraid..." their voices faded down the hall. Once he could no longer hear them, Holmes hurried out from behind the curtain.

He ran to the desk and in record time had picked the lock and thrown open the top. There were mounds of paper inside, and Holmes frantically flipped through them, looking for anything that could be a clue: building plans, receipts, correspondence. There were letters from family members, unfinished replies, and various lists that upon closer inspection seemed to be nothing more than shopping lists. There was a silver letter opener off to the side of the papers. He folded a few things at random and slipped them into his pocket to examine later.

Under the papers was an array of items. Expensive necklaces, cheap rings, billfolds which he poured through in vain. There was nothing to indicate if these were used for aliases, or anything else to go on. He pocketed a ring, swore under his breath and began to rummage through the drawers.

There was still nothing of marked interest; after an exhaustive search, he finally gave up and returned to the ball. Mary was at his side in an instant and they started for the doors. He muttered a few excuses here and there as people tried to draw them into conversation; finally, they left the party arm in arm.

Mary was leaning against his side slightly, a soft smile on her lips. The moonlight gave her pale skin a slightly ethereal glow that Holmes couldn't tear his eyes from.

He'd found women beautiful before, surely. In a purely intellectual sense, it was easy to determine the kind of woman that would turn a man's head; and Irene had been quite a pretty problem in every sense of the word. But strolling serenely through the streets, a beautiful woman snug against his side, all softness and warmth, was something he'd never experienced, and he found his breath quickening as he watched her from the corner of his eye. He tried to arrange the information gathered into some semblance of order to fit into the gaping holes in this puzzle, but he would lose the thread with every whiff of her perfume, or the press of her breast against his arm and she tried to drive away the cold. Halfway back to their hiding place, he stopped.

"Sherlock?" she looked up at him. He turned to face her fully, studying her quizzical expression. Her nose was pink from the cold, her cheeks slightly flushed. He'd never seen anything so beautiful, he was sure of it.

Looking back, he couldn't be sure who moved first; she rose up on her tiptoes and he bent over awkwardly, and their lips pressed together, warm and smooth. It was such an exquisite sweetness, he reached out to grip her hip and pull her closer. Her tongue pressed against his lips; he opened his mouth as she drove inside, hot and wet, and he moaned aloud in the street. Then she gently pulled away, smiling brightly at him. She gripped his arm tighter than necessary as they resumed walking, leaned more heavily against him than was needed, and smiled far too bright the rest of the way back to her husband.

Mary was still smiling when they entered the room and Watson pounced on them, demanding to know what had happened. Mary gave a breathless account of everything she could remember, Holmes informed them both of what he had seen during his admittedly disappointing search, and they agreed the papers should be wired to Mycroft immediately.

When they finally tumbled into bed an hour later, any residual nervousness or guilt Holmes felt over the kiss had been pushed out of his mind. Watson lay on his side with his back to him, Mary on Watson's other side, as they attempted to sleep. The temperature had dropped that evening, however, and no matter what Holmes tried, he could barely keep his shivers at bay. Watson and Mary seemed to be having no such trouble, so he kept his complaints to himself.

"Holmes, really, come here," Watson said in an exasperated voice. Holmes looked at Watson's back, confused, until Watson held out a hand for him to take. When he did, Watson tugged him back down, then wrapped Holmes's arm around his waist, chest flush against Watson's back. "Maybe next time we could stay somewhere with a fireplace; until then, I see no reason for you to suffer." It made logical sense, but the way Watson was gripping his hand and the way he pressed back against him drove all rational thought from his mind. Instead, he curled his legs up against his friend's and relished in the way his groin pressed against his buttocks.

His shivers seemed to only increase, actually, but neither Watson nor Mary commented on it. Mary shifted herself so her leg was draped over both of them, and Watson made a soft appreciative noise that shot straight to his groin. Dimly, he realized that he had put himself in a terribly compromising position. Surely Watson would know what the hardness pressed against him would be? He tried to shift away, but Watson tightened his grip on his hand and Mary flexed her leg around his calf and he realized they weren't going to let him go.

"Just sleep, Holmes," Watson said. So he did.


	5. Chapter 5

A frantic knocking on the door awoke them the next morning. Holmes disentangled himself from their messy pile of limbs first; Watson pulled his revolver from the night stand before following Holmes to the door. Holmes glanced over his shoulder at Mary and gestured for her to crawl behind the bed.

Just as she rolled off the bed, a voice called, "Mr. H, please open up! Please!"

"Wiggins?" Watson muttered in confusion. "He's not supposed to report again until Thursday."

Holmes threw open the door, and the boy hurried inside. He held out a paper as Holmes closed the door.

"Another murder?" Watson said. Holmes snatched the paper and frowned at it. The headline read: GRUESOME MURDER IN WEST END! SHERLOCK HOLMES STRIKES AGAIN!

He scoffed at the title and turned his attention to the article. "Late last night," he mussed.

"What is the purpose of this? The previous murders had done enough to force you into hiding," Watson pointed out.

"Do you think they knew we were at the ball?" Mary asked.

"Sending a message... perhaps," Holmes conceded. "Still, hardly enough time to plan and execute a murder." Watson tugged the paper back and read the article.

"They didn't plant any evidence," he said.

"That the paper mentioned," Holmes pointed out. Mary walked to the window and carefully peered out.

"Sherlock," she called over her shoulder. "I think you need to see this." Holmes walked to the window and looked over her shoulder.

"There are members of the yard everywhere," Holmes sighed. As he watched, two officers approached a tall elderly gentleman and began to harass him. One even went as far as to try and tug on his hair, checking for a wig. He turned away from the window. "And they have become so accustomed to my manor of disguise that they are stopping nearly every man with my height and build in an attempt to find me."

"What are we going to do?" Watson asked.

"I need to get to that crime scene," Holmes muttered.

"But you can't," Mary protested. "If they're stopping every man who so much as _looks_ like you..."

"Then I won't go as a man," Holmes said with a smile. "It looks like I'll need to call on Mycroft's generosity once more. Watson, you will of course be coming with me."

"What? Why?"

"I'll need your medical expertise, of course."

\-----

The package arrived this time with a polite note inquiring about his desire to re-enter polite society sometime soon. He thought about sending back a note informing Mycroft what exactly he thought of 'polite' society, but decided against it. He opened the box and stared inside, dumbfounded for a moment.

He knew there would be dresses inside, of course, and wigs and shoes, but the rest... he pulled out what could only be compared to a torture device and held it up to inspect. He heard Mary giggle behind him and Watson sigh.

"Oh for heaven's sake Holmes, either put it on or put it down. Don't stare at it like some sort of..." Watson trailed off, looking at his face. Holmes was certain his embarrassment at his own ignorance must have been shining through. Watson shifted awkwardly. In the end, it was Mary who came to his rescue. She stepped forward and pulled the device from his hands and began pulling the rest of the items out of the box, sorting them into two piles. Once she was finished, she picked up the nearest one and turned to Holmes.

"Right," she said, determined. She put a hand on his shoulder and guided him behind the screen. "Strip," she instructed. He started and looked at her, disbelieving. Watson snickered and she turned to him sternly. "It'll be your turn next," she informed him. Holmes quickly stripped down to his undergarments and signaled he was ready. Mary stepped behind the curtain. He kept his back to her as she helped fit the garments on him, wincing as she laced the corset and feeling as though he could barely breath as she buttoned up the back of his dress. Finally, she stepped back and admired her handiwork.

"Perfect," she said. "John," she purred evilly, "It's your turn, darling." Watson grumbled good-naturedly as he rose.

A while later, Holmes was sitting at the table as Mary put the finishing touches on his wig. He was sitting unnaturally rigid, his corset digging into his ribs.

"Honestly Holmes, I think this is even more conspicuous than if I'd gone as a man," Watson complained as he looked in the mirror, practicing holding his fan just so. He was wearing a pale blue dress with a sandy blonde wig pinned up into elegant curls.

"Well, if you'd agreed to shave your moustache we wouldn't have to do it this way," Holmes replied. Watson turned to make some remark; he stopped, however, when his eyes fell on Holmes. He blushed slightly, and Holmes couldn't help but think it had a charming effect. He cleared his throat.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. Watson continued to stare.

Mary squeezed his shoulder and leaned down to stage-whisper in his ear, "That's how they're supposed to react." Watson's face flushed farther, and Holmes felt his own cheeks heat when he realized what she meant.

Watson cleared his throat. "Y-you look very nice," he mumbled, eyes darting away.

"As do you," Holmes murmured.

"Well, as long as you keep your face covered," Mary lifted the fan back into place. Watson mock-growled at her, and Holmes couldn't help but laugh. "Sorry dear," Mary said with a smile.

Mary handed him a purse containing his magnifying glass and lock picks; she handed Watson one with changes of clothing for each of them. Holmes shouldered his and on impulse, leaned forward and brushed his lips over her cheekbone. She smiled at him just before Watson leaned over and covered her lips with his own, then they were off.

\-----

Holmes walked quickly, head down, Watson shuffling along behind him. Holmes had gone out in various costumes before and found it easy to fall into a woman's demure roll, soft footfalls and short gait. Watson limped along behind him; unable to bring his cane, he was left to shuffle along awkwardly. Holmes thought briefly of slowing to ease the doctor's discomfort, but couldn't bring himself to let the trail grow colder by even a moment longer than necessary.

They stopped across the street from the crime scene, blending easily into the murmuring crowd. Watson tucked his chin to his chest, keeping most of his face covered as his eyes darted back and forth, taking in every detail he could. Holmes examined the street thoroughly; it seemed sometime over the course of the evening, a cab had stopped here for sometime; the fresher tracks ran over the deeper grooves easily, but the trail still remained. He set about committing every other fact he could to memory.

The crime scene had been trampled over, badly so; he could see from the blood stains where the body had laid, though it seemed to him they weren't as large as the ones at the last crime scene. He leaned over to Watson's ear and said as much.

"Yes," Watson muttered back finally. "If he slashed her femoral artery there should have been much more bleeding -" he gestured "- at that end. "It doesn't appear to have bled hardly at all, in fact."

"If, indeed, the body was laid out in that position," Holmes reminded him.

"Right."

They stayed until well into the afternoon, when the crowd had finally grown bored and dispersed.

"Are we quite done?" Watson muttered to him. Holmes 'hmm'ed for a moment.

"Yes, I believe so," he said finally. He turned to Watson with a smile. "The only thing that could tell us more, now, would be the body."

"Astute observation, Holmes," Watson said dryly. "As you may have noticed, however, the body isn't here."

"Oh, I realize that."

"Good." There was a long silence.

"That is why we're going to break into Scotland Yard and steal the coroner's report."

Watson sputtered incoherently for a moment. "In dresses?" he finally asked, panicked.

"Of course not, dear fellow; unless, of course, you've grown attached to yours. I would not dream of judging you."

"Oh..." Watson sputtered, "Sod off, Holmes."

"Come, I know of a place down the street here where we will change and wait for nightfall," Holmes turned and led the way.

Holmes led the way down a nearby alley, into a small, run down shack. There was hardly any protection from the cold, but the wooden walls at least offered privacy. Holmes attempted to shed his dress on his own, but met with little success.

"Here, Holmes," Watson said finally. "Let me." Holmes stood still and felt Watson move behind him. His hands moved deftly over the row of buttons as though he'd done this a hundred times before. That thought didn't hurt as much as it likely would have before. Once he was done, Holmes shrugged out of the top of the dress and let Watson unlace his corset. The moment he was able to, he drew a deep breath, prompting Watson to chuckle.

"I don't know how they do it," Holmes admitted.

"Neither do I," Watson said. "Here, please." Holmes turned around and undid the buttons on Watson's dress next. The dress slipped down to his shoulders, and Holmes untied the corset. He watched, fascinated, as Watson's skin came into view inch by inch. He ran his hands up Watson's back and pushed the offending garment forward. Watson drew a deep breath, and Holmes stared as the muscles in his back flexed, still close enough to touch.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and drew his hands away. "Better?" he asked.

"Yes," Watson breathed. The sound sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine. He stepped back reluctantly and turned his back while his friend composed himself. Finally, Watson wordlessly handed him the bag with their spare clothing in it. He took out what Watson had left for him and dressed in a hurry, stuffing the rest unceremoniously back into the bag. He found a small barrel full of stagnant rain water out back - he grimaced, but decided it was good enough for washing the paint off their faces, at least. He carried it back inside.

Once they were both themselves once more, Holmes walked over to the far wall and slid down to the ground to wait. Watson finished adjusting his clothing and walked to sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder. They sat in companionable silence for some time, waiting for night to come. Holmes closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of people bustling through the streets of London, a low murmur of chatter that blended together to give the city a soft musical quality. Smells wafted past occasionally; food, drink, the faint whiff as a horse clattered by. He was so engrossed in their surroundings that at first, he didn't notice when Watson slipped a hand in his. Watson squeezed gently and he started, then with a soft smile, squeezed back.

\-----

It was just before midnight when they slipped out of the shack into the darkness. Holmes led the way through the dark streets, careful to avoid the gas-lamps and the officers patrolling the streets. They were everywhere, which he took as a good sign: no one would suspect a murderer to sneak into a police station, after all.

When they reached the Yard, Holmes quickly opened a window for them and they slipped inside. He was pleased to see he'd been correct: the Yard was deserted. Still, they moved with caution.

The moved wordlessly into the hall, and Holmes looked around, trying to get his bearings. Watson gripped his elbow and leaned close. "This way," he muttered. Holmes nodded and followed him. Within minutes they had stopped outside a door marked "Records." Watson turned his back on the door and looked side to side as Holmes sank to his knees in front of it and pulled out his lock picks.

"Done," he muttered a second later. He pushed the door open and Watson hurried past him. Holmes stood in the doorway while Watson walked straight to the coroner's files and began to rummage through them. Minutes passed. Holmes drummed his fingers on the door frame nervously.

"What's taking so long?" he whispered finally.

"It's not here," Watson whispered back. "It might still be down in the morgue, with the body," he said.

Holmes nodded. "Let's go."

They made their way down to the basement. The farther they moved into the depth of the Yard, the less they were concerned with concealing their movements, until they were nearly flying down steps and corridors. Holmes rounded a corner and skidded to a stop as a burst of light met his eyes. Watson gripped his wrist and spun him back around the corner, flinging him against the wall and covering his body with his own, hand covering his mouth. Watson leaned carefully around the corner are peered out.

"Two guards," he muttered. He dropped his hand.

"Armed?"

"I can't tell," he carefully pulled his revolver from his pocket. He nodded once, then they threw themselves around the corner. Watson reached them first, swinging his revolver in a wide arc as the first man rushed at him. The second man rushed at Holmes; he side stepped a punch, his elbow crashing down on the back of the man's head. It was over in seconds.

He turned to where Watson was kneeling over the other guard. There was a small amount of blood on the butt of the revolver in his hand. Holmes winced in sympathy.

"I don't envy him," he said lowly. Watson shrugged and continued to inspect the wound.

"I'm been wanting to do that for a while now."

Holmes nudged the man over with his shoe and sighed when he saw his face. "Honestly, my head was fine." Watson shrugged again and stood. He nodded to the table.

"There." Holmes grabbed the file and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Together they ran back the way they'd came and let themselves back out the window. Holmes led the way to a nearby alley.

The moment he turned the corner, he saw a man standing several feet away. Watson bumped into him from behind, then stepped to the side cautiously.

It happened so fast Holmes could barely comprehend it - the shot rang out; he heard Watson return fire, then two sets of footsteps thundering away from him. He leaned back against the wall, dazed. His vision was swimming, but he managed to look down and focus.

A thick red stream was flowing from his right side. He reached down to touch it, confused. It sounded like water was rushing in his ears.

"Holmes!" he jerked up. Watson was running toward him, panic written on his face. He tried to answer, to push off the wall and go to his obviously distressed friend, but his legs gave way beneath him. He sank to his knees and collapsed.

Watson was at his side in an instant. "God Holmes, why didn't you say anything?!" He reach out and pain exploded in his side. He tried to push Watson's hands away. "I have to stop the bleeding," Watson said. He blinked. Bleeding. He looked down again.

There was so much blood. Too much. God, he was bleeding out in the street. He clutched at Watson's hands which were still trying to stem the flow.

"Hold on. My God Holmes, please, please hold on," Watson was saying. Everything looked fuzzy and his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

"Watson," he slurred. "D'you think Gladstone's alright without us there?"

"Don't talk, Holmes," he sounded as though he were crying, but suddenly his eyelids were too heavy to check.

"Watson," he said again.

"Don't talk."

"I kissed Mary."

There was a long silence. He felt like he was floating away.

"I know, you fool," Watson said in a choked voice. "She told me." There was a soft, warm pressure on his lips, stealing the rest of his breath away. He shifted his head and pressed against his friend's lips before his head rolled back and he drifted away completely.


	6. Chapter 6

When he next opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Mary's concerned face hovering over him. The sheer look of relief that overcame her features was heartbreaking, and he reached out clumsily to touch her hand. She gripped it firmly and looked across the room.

"John, he's awake."

Then both of them were crowded over him, Watson checking his bandages and pulse, Mary smoothing his hair away from his face and sweeping her thumb over the back of his hand. He closed his eyes again with a sigh.

"Holmes? How are you feeling?"

He took a moment to gauge his injuries. "Like I've been shot," he said dryly. He opened his eyes to look at them.

They both leaned over him, one on either side of the bed. There were dark rings under Watson's eyes; an air of exhaustion hung over both of them. Guilt tore at him suddenly. He broke away from their gazes and looked around the room.

He let out a breath and stared. They were in a smaller room than before, yet with nicer furnishings. He recognized it as one of the bolt-holes nearest the Yard. On every available surface were piles of fruits, breads, cheeses, stacks of cloths and medical supplies ranging from bandages to an oddly arranged pile of crutches in one corner. A fire was blazing in the small fireplace, a gigantic mound of wood and matches nearby. He shifted higher in the bed, eyes wide, and looked around in amazement. "What's all this?" he softly.

"Gifts from the Irregulars," Watson said dryly. He paused as he and Mary helped prop him up slightly so he could see them better. "Once Wiggins found out what had happened, he informed the rest of them. They've been flooding the place with food, cloths and medical supplies for three days now. If they can buy or steal it, it's here." He lifted his medical bag with a chuckle, "They even broke into my own home."

"But your house is still being watched," Holmes said with a frown, even as his heart swelled with an almost paternal pride. Having extra sets of eyes around London was well and good, but they were under strict orders not to put themselves in actual danger.

"They went round to Baker Street, too," Mary lifted a basket with a smile, "But I don't think they had to steal this." Holmes took the basket dumbly, staring at the array of sandwiches, tea, and biscuits.

"That one arrived just this afternoon," Watson was saying, but Holmes paid him no mind. He ran his fingers over the edge of the cloth, and glanced around at the assortment of gifts once more. Watson's clothes were rumpled, as though he'd slept in them for several days; Mary's hands were stained pink around the cuticles where she'd been unable to wash away his blood. It was too much; his throat felt tight and he blinked rapidly to try and clear the sudden moisture from his eyes. He realized Watson had stopped talking and cleared his throat hurriedly.

"The coroner's report, you have it?" he said.

"Yes, Holmes. There was nothing extraordinary. It was the same as the others."

He sat up and winced when he pulled his stitches. Watson and Mary were both on their feet instantly, guiding him back down to the bed. "There must be something in there interesting enough for Moriarty's agents to ambush us," he sighed. "Read me the file, if you please," he said.

"Only if you agree to rest," Watson replied. Holmes grumbled, but settled back against the pillows with Mary's help. Watson sighed and flipped open the file. He rattled off the victims description, some basic information about her family.

"The body was found at 1 a.m., time of death placed around 11 p.m. the night before. The body had been moved -"

"Moved!" Holmes cried, sitting up straight. Mary and Watson both abandoned what they were doing to try and push him back down, but he waved them off impatiently. "Neither of the previous bodies had been moved."

Watson shrugged, still trying to get him to lie back down. "So maybe they came across her in an inconvenient location and had to dump the body after. I don't know, Holmes, please just lie down!"

Holmes allowed himself to be forced back against the mattress as he considered this information. Mary and Watson reclined in their chairs once more, relieved.

"My God, I've been a fool!" Holmes cried suddenly. Watson started and jumped to his feet.

"Holmes, what are you talking about?"

"There's no time, Watson, I must send a telegram to Mycroft - Watson," Watson pressed the form and a pencil into his hand. He smiled briefly. "Mary," he said as he wrote, "take this down to the pageboy downstairs," she hurried down the stairs.

"What's this about, Holmes?"

"Don't you see? I assumed all along that the murders were done to frame me; that they continued to keep me in hiding while Moriarty finalized some other plan."

"They _were_ done to frame you!" Watson said.

"No, no. It was merely a coincidence; a crime of opportunity. Moriarty has found a monster in London's underbelly that even he cannot leash; the best he can do is use it to his advantage. He cannot control it."

"I don't understand."

"The murdered woman that started all this; indeed, I was convinced of her guilt - still am, truth be told - and had earlier that day quarrelled with Lestrade on that very subject. When the monster struck the source of this discord, naturally Moriarty seized on the opportunity. Myself being engaged for the evening in activities that left me, shall we say, short on deductive prowess, it was an easy enough thing to spirit away my cigarette case and place it at the crime scene."

"And the earlier murder?"

"Completely unrelated to me. If you were to scan the records at Scotland Yard, you would probably come up with a number of crimes that fit the bill; but if it's as I suspect, and the women are all lower-class, it's unlikely anyone would have thought to connect them."

"And if we knew that, it would give us an idea of where our killer will strike next."

"This is why I have wired Mycroft to have his sources to send us information on any crime which might fit this criteria. Until then, the Irregulars will watch Mr. Cartwright - from a safe distance, mind you - at all times. Wiggins will report daily; it's riskier to our cover -"

"But safer for potential victims. But Holmes, you cannot be saying that Mr. Cartwright is the monster you speak of?"

"_This_ body was the first one to be moved. Why do you think that is?"

Watson paused a moment in thought. "The place the murder took place was incriminating, somehow," he said finally.

"Indeed. Why also do you think he was attempting to gain access to his study during the ball earlier that evening?"

"You think that's where he keeps the murder weapon?"

"Yes. When Mary waylaid his plans of slipping away, he became desperate. At the end of the evening, he preyed on one of his own guests. I have also requested that Mycroft confirm that our victim was indeed a guest at our soiree that evening. He also has an assortment of rings, costume jewelry and other cheap baubles locked away in that room - keepsakes, as it were."

Watson looked ill. He sat down hard on the edge of the bed. "He killed a woman in his own house," he said, "so he had to dump the body later, instead of killing in the street as usual. Which explains the bloodstains; or lack thereof."

"Indeed." He paused, considering. "It's of the utmost importance that we are able to arrange for Scotland Yard to make the arrest. We must follow him, and when he is about to kill again, lead the police to the scene of the crime."

"But that's too dangerous," Mary interjected from the doorway. Holmes started; he hadn't heard her approach. She stepped inside. "What if he kills the girl?"

"We will be watching too closely for that to happen," Holmes assured her. "He cannot slip away from _me_, now."

\---

Holmes knew he was a terrible patient under any circumstances; under these, however, he imagined he was a nightmare. Mycroft confirmed the victim's presence at the ball, cementing the case farther in their minds. The old case files started trickling in, and he poured over them, strewn over his bed. Watson had protested when he'd pulled himself into a sitting position, but as he agreed only to leave the bed to relieve himself, and even then only with assistance, he'd grudgingly agreed.

He barked orders at them, and ate only when fighting with them seemed more time consuming than the alternative. Irregulars would appear in the doorway, only to have him shout requests immediately. Far from shrinking like other children might, they would beam with pride and set to work. Soon, he had a large map of London propped up across from him, pins sticking in the locations of each murder as they arrived. He'd had Mary mark each one with the date and approximate time.

As the days wore on, Watson agreed to let him get up and hobble around the room in a slow, painful imitation of his old thinking habits. The wound was healing well, without infection, surprisingly, given where he'd been shot. Sometimes Mary or Watson would come up to him and slip an arm around his waist, encouraging him to lean on them. These times, he would lose his train of thought, but pace longer than usual anyway.

Sometimes he would catch one of them looking at him intently, but the moment he'd catch their eye, they would smile and just look away. He had thought he had it figured out at last, but there were no new kisses, and only caring, helpful touches. It left him confused and unsure. There was a small sitting room adjacent to the bedroom, and he almost imagined he'd be turned out onto the settee as soon as he was well enough; but his strength continued to grow and they still crawled into bed with him every night. He often woke to find them tangled together, asleep. Those times, he cursed the fireplace and shifted away as best as he could.

\-----

Holmes wasn't prepared for it when he awoke to soft murmuring and cloth shifting once more. He was surprised to open his eyes and see Mary and Watson locked in an embrace in the seat across from the bed. They had stripped down to their undergarments this time; from the way Mary's hung off her leg, he could tell they were already joined. Holmes let his gaze roam greedily across the expanse of Watson's chest, the soft curve of Mary's breasts; the way their hips fit together just so, arousal burning through him even as a sharp pain twisted in his chest.

Watson turned his head so Mary could kiss her way down his neck. His eyes cracked open and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. Mary stilled at Watson's sudden lack of movement. It felt to Holmes like time had frozen, and he knew that if they stopped, if they _left_, it would be more than he could bear. "Holmes," Watson whispered thickly.

He heard himself whimper in response, and both Mary and Watson shuddered. "Please..." he whispered in a small voice, terribly unsure.

They rose instantly and walked to the bed, hand in hand. Mary carefully climbed in on his right, fingers ghosting over his hipbone just below his bandage. Watson laid on his left. They looked at each other for a long moment, then Watson leaned forward and claimed his lips in a heated kiss. A small hand rubbed over his chest, and he made a soft appreciative noise. Watson growled in return and slid an arm around his waist, careful to avoid his bandages.

The hand on his chest slid lower, trailed over Watson's arm and suddenly gripped him through his trousers. He broke the kiss to cry out, fighting the urge to press into that firm grip.

"Sshh," Watson reclaimed his lips again. He felt Mary's soft lips on the side of his neck. He shifted to give her better access. She stroked him once, then released him. He whimpered at the loss of contact, but she just reached up to unfasten his trousers. Watson's arm moved from around his waist to help him to lift his hips and together they pushed his trousers and undergarments down past his knees. Two hands slid back up his thighs, teasing gently while their mouths worked, searing heat claiming his mouth, soft wet pressure against his pulse point. Watson's larger hand finally moved to cup his sack, and a moment later Mary tentatively stroked his shaft.

Holmes felt like he was coming apart at the seems; he felt his control slipping away under a tidal wave of sensations. One of Watson's fingers slipped to rub at his perineum and he broke the kiss to gasp. Instantly Watson pulled his hand away from his sack, and a sick feeling of fear went through him, wondering if he'd done something wrong. But he simply brought his hand up and Mary, seeming to understand without being asked, pulled her mouth away from his neck and took the digit into her mouth, closing her eyes in bliss. Holmes watched, transfixed, as she bobbed her head a few times, the finger sliding in and out of her mouth obscenely, before she released it with a wet sound and gave him a sinful smile. She tugged at his arousal as Watson pressed gently at his sack with the heel of his hand. He was so lost in the sensations, he didn't realize right away that they were urging his legs farther apart. He felt the digit press against him and jumped slightly.

"Relax," Watson whispered. He bent to kiss him once more, and Mary began to trail kisses across his chest. He forced himself to relax as Watson slowly pressed inside. They stayed like that for several seconds; Mary's hand ghosting over his cock, soft tantalizing touches that did nothing for the searing heat swirling in him, Watson's finger teasing his hole while he gently pressed his testicles with his palm. Then, Mary moved her leg over his to get more comfortable and gasped when she pressed against his thigh. He shifted his leg slightly, watching her face. She gripped him tighter in response, grinding down on his leg. Watson was just watching them, unmoving. Holmes leaned toward him and pulled him into a kiss, tongues rubbing together obscenely; he felt Mary grab his hand and lead him to grasp Watson's cock. They moaned into each other's mouths. Mary's hand worked faster as she ground against him, gasping and moaning. Watson's tongue pressed into his mouth, hot and slick, tangling with his own, as he pulled out the finger and pressed back inside. Sparks went off behind his closed eyes as he found a rhythm.

He was lost in the feeling of hands stroking, pressing, pressure and fullness, the feel of hot hardness under his fingers and wet softness rubbing against him. Mary cried out first, her hand never stopping, and an instant later Watson shuddered, warm wetness rushing over his hipbone. Watson crooked a finger inside of him, moving frantically now; a shock of pleasure overtook him and he released with a loud moan.

He wasn't sure how long the shudders wracked his body; or how long he laid there, boneless. When he finally came back to himself, Mary was stroking his hair and murmuring soothingly in his ear and Watson was gently wiping them clean.

"Are you alright?" Watson asked, concerned. He checked the bandage just to be sure. "Holmes?"

"Hmm," he pulled Watson's hand away and tugged until he laid back down. "I'm fine," he said, yawning. Mary curled around his other side, head resting on his shoulder.

"We should have waited longer," Watson muttered as he settled down.

"He said he's fine," Mary said softly. "Besides, _could_ you have waited longer?"

"No," he admitted. Holmes couldn't stop a broad smile from spreading on his face at that. He pulled his friend closer and kissed his forehead.

"Good," he said, "Neither could I."


	7. Chapter 7

For the next few days Holmes marveled at the wonder of being allowed to touch other human beings whenever he pleased. The Irregulars would come and go at all hours, but whenever they were not occupied with the case he would find himself running his hands idly through Watson's hair, ghosting his fingers down Mary's arm, stealing light kisses when one of them happened to be walking by. Finally, the last piece of the puzzle arrived one day in the form of a case file just over six months old.

"This is it," he announced one day, looking over the board. Watson and Mary both quickly walked to his side and looked it over.

"I don't see it," Watson confessed finally.

"They follow a pattern, see, if you look at the dates," He pointed at the pins in order.

"All except the last one," Mary said.

"Yes, that has been troubling me," Holmes admitted. "But here is what I propose: we throw it out."

"Throw it out?" Watson said skeptically. "It doesn't fit your theory, so we discard it? That doesn't sound like you." Holmes wagged a finger at him.

"Ah, but I'm not suggesting we throw it out entirely. Think of it as re-categorizing it, instead. If this murder were politically motivated, then it could have been ordered by Moriarty, rather than whatever sick desire motivates his other crimes. She was, as Mycroft informs me, married to a foreign diplomat. That, too, doesn't fit the pattern."

"If that's the case," Watson looked over the dates in order again and paled. "Holmes, he's going to strike again tonight! We have to inform the police."

"By the time we've convinced them to investigate rather than arresting me on sight, it will be too late. No, we will set up sentries here," he pointed to the map, "he will strike along this stretch of road tonight between ten and midnight. We will be waiting for him. Let's prepare."

Wiggins arrived shortly after to report, and they worked out the placement of sentries down the road, so no part would be left unwatched, and Holmes, Watson and Wiggins would never be too far if needed. Wiggins promised to round up three younger boys to run between them and keep them abreast of any news. Then, he left.

Holmes pulled himself to his feet with only minor difficulty, waving away Watson as he hovered. "I'm fine," he assured him. "Feeling better than I have been in months, in fact," he grinned at Watson, who flushed slightly but smiled back. He leaned over and pecked him on the lips.

"Promise me you'll be safe," Watson murmured against his lips. Holmes nodded and pulled him in for a deeper kiss. They broke apart as the door opened.

"I'm coming with you," Mary said. She stood in the doorway, hands planted on her hips, lips pursed. Watson spared her a glance then pocketed his revolver.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mary," he said. "It's too dangerous."

"I will not be left behind!" she cried. "Last time..." her face fell. Holmes looked down, unable to watch the emotions playing over her features.

He heard Watson cross the room and looked up in time to see him taking his wife's hands. "Mary," he began, "We know what we're looking for, this time. We'll be more careful. You can't guarantee that your presence last time would have changed the outcome at all." She opened her mouth to protest. "No," he said firmly. He kissed her softly, and without another word brushed past her and into the sitting room. She stared at the ground in front of her, misery written on her face.

"Don't worry; if someone's going to get injured, statistically, it's most likely to be me again," Holmes said with a smile. Her head snapped up.

"Don't say such things!" she snapped fiercely. She blushed a deep red and turned to focus on the door frame. "You cannot leave me behind," she said, determined once more. She squared her shoulders and faced him. "I am a part of this... this..." she gestured between the two of them and to Watson in the sitting room, "You cannot just leave me behind when it's convenient."

Watson appeared in the doorway behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder and drew her back until she was leaned against him, dejected.

"That's not what we're doing at -"

"Alright." Both their heads snapped up to look at him.

"What?" Watson said, disbelieving.

"She'll be an extra pair of eyes." She nodded, determination making her eyes glitter.

"This is insane! Holmes, you cannot possibly..."

"You will go straight to the inn," Holmes told her, ignoring Watson's protests. "You will arrange for a room, and stay near the windows. If anything goes wrong, contact the Yard and put them on the trail. Agreed?"

"Yes," Mary said instantly. Watson cleared his throat.

"Alright," he said finally.

\-----

Holmes immediately knew something was wrong when he noticed a knot of boys standing just outside the reach of the streetlamps. He stomped over to them, Watson and Mary hurrying to catch up, glancing nervously around for police.

"Where's Wiggins?" Holmes asked the nearest boy.

"'e was picked up on the way by the Yard," the boy replied. Holmes cursed. Of all the times for the police to take notice of the Irregulars. Mentally he worked out placements, trying to stretch his small group far enough to safely encompass the whole street.

"We can't do it," Watson said. "There will be no one watching the far end of the street."

"I can do it." They both turned to look at Mary in shock. She met their gazes evenly.

"No, Mary; it's bad enough that you're even here!" Watson protested.

"If we don't do this, he's going to kill again, isn't he?" she looked between them, then turned to Holmes "I can _do this_," she said to Holmes.

"Yes," he said finally. "Go," he gestured, and she hurried away. Watson stared at him in shock. "She'll be fine. She's at the far end; it's likely she won't even see him. Get to your post," he pointed in the opposite direction. Watson gave him one last piercing look before he jogged off.

Holmes settled himself to his post and waited. He checked his watch; 10 p.m.

"Here we go," he muttered.

\-----

11:45. His legs protested as he shifted once more where he knelt; anticipation thrumbed through his very being as he waited, yet was swiftly turning to apprehension. If the cases were to be believed, the man worked like clockwork. And yet...

Watson stepped into view on his right just as the boy came from the left running as fast as his short legs could carry him. Holmes felt his heart leap into his throat at the sight. Somehow, he knew just by looking at him what he was going to say.

"Where is she?" Holmes demanded harshly. The boy skidded to a stop and shrank away slightly. He gripped him by the arm and shook him viciously. "Answer me, boy! Where did she go?"

"A bloke came," he said in a quivering voice. "'e came up behind her, but when he saw me, 'e grabbed her. She got 'im in the head with a gun," he swung his arm wildly, imitating her flailing, "but 'e got ahold of her and took her."

"Which way?" The boy pointed a shaking hand in the direction of Cartwright's home. He heard Watson's footsteps behind him. "Come, Watson -"

A blow struck him across the face. He barely managed to stay on his feet and turned to face his attacker. Watson stood, face flushed, breathing heavily.

"This is all your fault," he said, voice tightly controlled. He clenched his fists. "_You_ allowed her to come with us. _You_ told her to take the place of Wiggins. And all of this happened because Moriarty is AFTER YOU!" he shouted. Holmes stared at him, shocked.

"Watson..." he breathed. In an instant Watson had lunged at him, knocking them both to the ground. He landed several blows before strong hands wrenched them apart.

"Hey, what are you -" the officer holding him gasped. "It's him! IT'S HIM!" He blew a whistle. Holmes could see three more officers coming down the street, in addition to the two that already held them. Watson was still breathing heavily, eyes wild. Holmes quickly dispatched the man holding him; the three coming, however, overtook him too fast, and in an instant he was pinned to the ground by the group of them. Watson was still standing, though half-held now.

"He has my wife!" Watson shouted. Holmes was thrashing on the ground, trying to throw off the officers holding him down.

"What's going on here?" a voice rang out. Holmes stilled.

"Lestrade!" he called.

"Got him, have you?" Lestrade said to someone.

"He has Mary!" Watson shouted again.

"Shut him up," someone else said. Holmes heard a pained grunt and Watson fell to the ground next to him. The ache in his chest deepened as Watson's eyes filled with tears.

"What's this about Mary?" Lestrade asked.

Holmes and Watson both started shouting instantly. Holmes rattling off the address over and over, Watson half begging, half crying for his wife.

"Enough!" His boot nudged Holmes's shoulder. "Alright then, Mr. Holmes. Explain yourself."

He took a deep breath to calm himself. He rattled off the address again. "The address of a Mr. Cartwright, the real murderer. He's taken Mary. I'm certain she's there."

There was a long silence. A few of the officers snickered.

"Please," Holmes said softly. He twisted so he could look up at Lestrade. "Just check. Only, look, please," he begged. Lestrade exhaled deeply and looked around, scowling.

"If you run off on us, Mr. Holmes..." he threatened.

"Shoot me in the back," Holmes agreed. "Put a noose around my neck for good measure. But stop _wasting time_."

"Get him up and uncuff him," he said to the nearest officer. "You'll lead the way, Holmes." The instant his cuffs were off, he was running.

"This way!" Lestrade caught up and gripped his elbow, but Holmes paid him no mind. They weren't far away, but they'd lost several minutes time, and already he feared the worst.

\-----

His lungs burned from lack of exercise and searing pain shot through his side at every step as he pulled his stitches, but he pushed himself faster, the growing pain in his chest having nothing to do with physical exertion. He knew if he stopped to think, he would double over in the street and be sick. Most of the officers were trailing far behind them; Watson was next to him, face pale but determined, Lestrade on his other side, a grim look marring his features.

Finally, they bounded up the steps. Holmes threw himself against the door, hands scrambling. He barely had time to step back and fumble with his lock picks when Watson drew his revolver and shot it twice. The door swung open slightly of it's own accord.

Holmes pushed open the door and immediately he was struck by the _screaming_. The three of them froze in place for a heartbeat. His mouth went dry, and Holmes knew in his bones he would never forget that sound as long as he lived. Watson made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

"This way," Holmes rasped. He was off like the shot, the others barely a step behind him. He led them toward the study, skidding around corners and beginning to fumble. His right side was slick and warm with blood.

When the screaming stopped a searing pain shot through his chest. He hadn't realized the strange comfort her voice had brought him. At least if she was screaming, she was _alive_...

He turned the last corner. His eyes focused on the door and he forced himself those last few steps.

A gun shot echoed behind the closed door. Then silence. He stood dumbly outside the door for a moment. Had he heard them coming? Had he decided to...?

His foot connected with the door once, twice, then he was tumbling inside.

At first, when he saw Mary's form standing in the far corner he was overcome with a relief so encompassing he nearly came undone.

Cartwright knelt on the far side of the room clutching in vain at a gaping hole in his abdomen, face chalk white, clearly in shock. Incapacitated. But he would live.

He looked back at Mary; took in the gun in her hand, the thick rivets of blood running down her arm, her wide, tearful eyes, the way she was trembling like a leaf.

He felt himself cross the room and press his gun to Cartwright's head. From somewhere far away, he pulled the trigger.

"Mary!" Watson ran inside. Holmes came back to himself and turned to look. Still dazed, she held her arms open and Watson engulfed her, sinking to his knees and gripping her to his chest. Holmes watched, heart aching. They whispered soft words and stroked each others faces and hair.

Neither of them looked at him. He turned away.

"Mr. Holmes..." he looked up to see Lestrade standing in front of him. He was worrying his hat between his hands, face pained. "I am so..."

"I'll give my statement at the Yard later," Holmes said quietly. He brushed past without another word, headed for Baker Street.


	8. Chapter 8

He didn't know how he made it back to Baker Street; one of the officers outside might have called him a cab. The next thing he knew, he was standing in the entrance way, Mrs. Hudson worrying over him tearfully. He allowed her to guide him up the stairs but refused her offer to re-bandage his wound. Instead, he sent her back down the stairs. He took in the blood stains on his clothes and reflected that most of it wasn't his. That it was _his_ but it could have so easily have been _hers._

Holmes stared around at the walls of Baker Street. His rooms had never felt so empty before.

It was all true, he reflected. He'd wanted to prove to himself that Mary wasn't weak, that he didn't have to worry about losing her. And she'd almost died. Could he blame Watson for hating him for that?

No. He'd had a glimpse of happiness, but even that was more than he deserved. He was a destructive force; it was absurd to entertain the notion it could last.

He needed to stop this. He needed to get away. He spotted the morocco case sitting on the mantle and walked toward it; the only way he knew to escape his overworked mind. He jabbed the needle into his arm, pressed the plunger home, and waited.

Soon, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep where he lay on the settee. In the haze of the morphine, his dreams turned nightmarish. Mary, stretched out in the street, eyes unseeing, lips drawn in a permanent expression of horror. Watson, tears streaming down his face, telling him it was all his fault; his fault. Watson, his corpse rendered nearly unrecognizable, Mary in a black mourning gown, staring at him with eyes wide, pained, accusing.

And the _screaming._

He was slowly coming back to himself, choking on words, calling for someone, though he didn't know who.

Hands gently eased him up from where he'd fallen on the floor, and he felt himself being deposited back on the settee. There was a sweet smell in the air, a heavy mixture of flowery perfume and hand rolled cigars that represented _them_ more than anything else in the world to him. It soothed him, and he relaxed against the settee without opening his eyes. If it was a dream, he wouldn't do anything to shatter it. And he was still so very tired.

He imagined he felt hands smoothing his hair down as he finally drifted into a natural sleep.

\-----

When he awoke again he was alone. The curtains had been pulled back, however, the sun shining in, causing him to blink heavily and shield his eyes.

The door swung open, and Watson walked inside, carefully balancing a tea tray in one hand and closing the door with the other. Holmes watched, disbelieving, as he crossed to the table and began carefully preparing two cups of tea and dividing up the biscuits.

What an odd hallucination.

Said hallucination continued to ignore him as he sat, fiddled with the spoons for a moment, then passed a hand over his eyes, suddenly slumping in his chair.

_What are you doing?_ Holmes wanted to ask. _What on earth is wrong?_

But he didn't. To acknowledge this apparition would surely drive it away, and he would hold onto his dreams as long as possible.

The door swung open again, and Mary walked inside, two large bags held in her hands.

"It's done," she said. _Oh good_, he thought idly, _they have voices_. He wondered what he would have to do to continue with this insanity. Because if insanity meant spending the rest of his life like this, then surely he didn't want it to _stop_.

The Watson hallucination hurried to the door and took her bags.

"You should have left them by the door," he admonished her. Holmes felt tears forming at the corners of his eyes at the familiar timber of that rich voice. _If only_...

He shook himself suddenly. _No_. No acknowledgment of the real world, not now. Not when he could imagine they were here.

The movement drew the Mary hallucination's eye, however, and she turned to him.

"John, he's awake," she said. Memories flooded him of the last time she'd said those words, and he closed his eyes against the onslaught of emotions.

A warm hand pressed against his forehead, and he jumped. He blinked several times, and finally focused. They both leaned over him, looking concerned. He took a deep breath.

"Are you... are you really here?" he asked dumbly. Watson smiled at him and helped to pull him into a sitting position.

"Of course we're here. Where else would we be?" but the instant he said it, he sobered. They sat across from him, looking around the room, barely making eye contact.

They'd both changed into clean clothing, he noted, suddenly feeling disgusting in his blood-coated ensemble. Instead of the trousers he'd come to expect, Mary wore a beautiful green dress that fit her figure perfectly. He could just barely make out the outline of a thick bandage covering the upper portion of her right arm; he wanted to scream, he wanted to pull back the sleeve of her dress until he could kiss every inch of the wounded skin in apology; but he no longer had that right. So, he merely sat across from them and sipped the tea Watson gave him. An awkward silence permeated the room.

"Holmes," Watson began. "I - I hope you can forgive me. For what I said." Holmes looked up, surprised.

"It was all true," Holmes said sadly. "I understand. Thank you, though, for coming. I'm sure you'd like to get home."

Watson frowned. "Holmes, what are you talking about?"

"We're staying right here," Mary said firmly. His confusion must have been evident on his face.

"I sent Mrs. Hudson to the country for a few days to visit her daughter," Watson explained. "I thought we could use the privacy," he smiled.

Holmes stared at him in undisguised shock. What felt suspiciously like hope was blossoming in his chest, overwhelming him so completely it took him a minute to find his voice. "You - you still want to...?" he said hesitantly.

Watson stood quickly and gripped his hands, tugging him to his feet. Strong arms enveloped him. "Honestly, Holmes, did you think because of this we would stop loving you?"

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He knew that they were fond of him - for whatever reason - but they'd never given it a name, he realized. Watson drew back to look carefully at his face. What he saw there made his gaze soften.

"I love you," he brushed a finger along his lower lip. Holmes's breath hitched and he had to lower his gaze. Mary came closer and ran a soft hand over his cheekbone. He turned to look at her.

"I love you," she whispered. She pressed her lips to his gently, caressing him with her mouth. Still held tightly in Watson's arms, her lips pressed to his, he began to feel dizzy under the sudden rush of emotions. She pulled back fractionally.

"What do you need?" she whispered. He froze for a moment, then said the first thing that came to his mind.

"A bath." He cringed the instant the words were out of his mouth. She just laughed and drew away.

"I'll be right back, then."

Watson's hands moved deftly over the buttons of his shirt. He pulled it open and ran his hands light up Holmes's chest; he shivered in response and gripped his shoulders. Lips ghosted over his own just as fingers pinched his nipples gently.

He gasped at the sensation. Watson chuckled at his response and moved to push his shirt of his shoulders. He pulled it off impatiently and reached for the buttons of Watson's shirt, but his hands were swatted away.

"Not yet," Watson murmured.

"Why not?" Watson just chuckled breathlessly and kissed him again, reaching to undo his flies. His trousers were forced down over his knees, freeing his erection; Watson knelt in front of him and helped his step out of them while Holmes gripped his shoulders to steady himself. When his task was complete, Watson just sat back on his heels and slowly looked over his body. Holmes shuddered and heat uncoiled in his abdomen at the hungry look in his eyes.

"The bath's ready," Mary walked back into the room. For a moment she just stood there, watching the two of them with a smile. Holmes was starting to feel self conscious, standing there completely naked when neither of them had undone even a button. Still, his cock twitched as they stared at him.

"Come here," Mary said. He walked over to her, Watson trailing behind him. She led him to the bath and he climbed into the hot water gratefully. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The heat immediately seeped into his muscles; he felt his arousal flag slightly as he sank deeper into the water.

He drew a sharp breath when a warm cloth passed over his chest. He opened his eyes to see Watson kneeling next to the tub; he'd shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves; the rest of his outfit was intact - he was even still wearing his bowler, Holmes noted with some amusement.

Warm water suddenly rushed over his scalp and down his back. He looked back to see Mary, sleeves also pushed up, smiling at him. Watson continued to gently wash his body, clearing away the reminders of his mistakes, massaging his tense muscles while Mary threaded her fingers through his hair, rubbing and scraping at his scalp until he was boneless in the water. Once he was clean their hands continued to stroke and wander, Watson's dipping below his waist to rub teasingly at his inner thigh. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back as the hand moved to cup his sack and one of Mary's moved down to glide over his chest.

Suddenly both sets of hands pulled away from him. His eyes shot open and he looked around, confused. Mary crossed to stand in front of Watson and sealed their lips together as their hands worked each other's buttons, a slight desperation to their movement. He just sat there, watching as Watson's shirt fell open to reveal his tan chest; he urged Mary to turn around and undid the last trappings keeping her dress in place. He knelt behind her and tugged it down, pressing a single chaste kiss to her lumbar curve as it fell. Then he turned and gently urged Holmes up and out of the water. For a moment they all stood together, wet and slick as hands roved over warm skin, lips pressing to every inch they could reach. Finally, Watson stepped back.

"Bed," he gasped. Holmes groaned in agreement. They stumbled in that direction, unwilling to break contact for a second. Just before they reached the bed, Watson pulled his back flush against his chest and maneuvered them so they were sitting on the edge of the bed. Watson's erection pressed into his backside and he ground down on it, drawing a moan from him. Watson spread his own legs further, forcing Holmes's legs farther apart. He held him in place with an arm around his waist.

He felt terribly exposed in such a vulnerable position, but Watson tilted his head over his shoulder and ran his unoccupied hand down his chest to grip his cock, and all thought fled his mind. He leaned his head back on Watson's shoulder and whimpered in his ear, then rolled his hips back, relishing in the way Watson's eyes fluttered closed for a moment and he pressed forward eagerly in response. He glanced forward to see Mary kneeling in front of them, mouth parted slightly as she watched.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall back again. Watson's warmth against his back contrasted exquisitely with the cool air in front of him, knowing he was spread open and completely exposed to Mary's eyes as Watson's hand continued to stroke him. Precum leaked down his cock, lubricating their movements.

A slick digit pressed against his hole suddenly, and his eyes shot open. Mary was leaning forward, eyes focused on her task as she slowly slid one finger inside him, stopping at the first knuckle. He whimpered, and Watson forced his legs even wider and shifted his hips to give her better access. Pleasure shot through him as he shifted; a thick bead of precum formed at the tip of his cock at the motion. Mary leaned forward and licked it away just as she pressed her finger the rest of the way inside.

"Ahh!" he tensed and jerked, though he didn't know if he wanted to get away from the feeling or was desperate for more of it. He felt lost in the intensity of it all. Watson's hand slowed until he was just gripping him tightly, a warm pressure. He felt rather than heard him whispering soothing words in his ear. The tension slowly drained from him.

"Alright?" Mary asked him. He opened his eyes slightly and nodded. She slowly shifted her finger inside of him, not withdrawing but simply pressing, shifting inside of him. Watson loosened his grip on his cock and resumed stroking, pressing hot kisses to the side of his neck. Soon he was shifting against them, writhing his opening around her finger, Watson's cock sliding between his cheeks, leaving a wet trail that eased their movements. Watson was panting and groaning into his ear, driving him higher still as Mary slicked her fingers once more and pressed two digits inside. Her cheeks were stained a deep red, mouth still parted as she moved her other hand between her own legs. As he watched, she ran her fingers through the short dark curls there before slipping a finger inside. She moaned, and he reached out to draw her up to her knees, fingers still inside both of them, and tugged her forward for a kiss. He slipped his tongue into her warm mouth, stroking hers eagerly as she whimpered. Watson's arm left his waist, his hand tangling in the back of Holmes's hair and tugging.

"Now," he gasped. Mary's fingers left him instantly and he groaned in frustration. Then there were two sets of hands on his hips, urging him up, positioning him. He felt Watson's member pressed against him and he pressed back, hissing as his muscles stretched farther. He moaned.

It was too much, and he tried to tell them so. It burned and stretched but they guided him until he was pressed firmly against Watson's thighs, panting. Watson's arms trembled around his waist as he tried to regain some of his self control. Mary straddled him suddenly, one hand on his shoulder and one on Watson's behind him. He watched transfixed as she slowly lowered herself until she had taken just the head of his cock inside; then he was engulfed in heat and wetness and his hands were scrambling on her hipbones, trying to find purchase. He leaned forward and sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, rolling the other one between his fingers. She gave a choked cry and clenched around him.

Watson began to move first, a slow gentle rhythm that drove him up and into Mary, drawing soft whimpers and moans from her throat. The burning sensation soon faded, leaving only an exquisite fullness and hot flashes of pleasure. Watson ground inside of him with shallow thrusts that teased him into a frenzy of need. He clutched at Mary and babbled and moaned in her ear, jerking and pulling her against him harder. Watson stilled them for just a moment and urged them backward and over - he slipped out of her, then she was on her back, soft and sweet beneath him, Watson pushing him down on top of her and encouraging him back inside with deep, slow thrusts. They quickly found a rhythm, Watson thrusting harder and faster and Mary clenched and writhing on his cock.

He could feel his orgasm building; he ducked his head and sucked Mary's tongue into his mouth, pinching and rolling her nipples until he felt a rush of wetness and she convulsed around him, whimpering. Stars exploded behind his eyes and he drew back to moan, thrusting deep inside of her as he came. Watson trembled only a second later, biting his shoulder viciously as his cock jerked and twitched inside of him.

They collapsed together in a panting heap. Holmes tried to keep his eyes open, but found himself with his head resting on the pillow next to Mary, nearly drifting off to sleep.

"I'm going to need at least one of you to move," she said finally. Watson chuckled and moved to the side, drawing them both closer. Holmes just muttered into the pillow and yawned. She swatted him playfully on the shoulder. He sat up, intending to make some remark, when he caught sight of her bandaged arm. Remembering his earlier impulse, he shifted to the side and gently brought it up to his lips, pressing kisses down the length of the gauze. Finally, he looked up to see them both looking at him with twin looks of wonder. Watson reached out to brush a thumb across his cheek, and he realized he'd begun to weep.

"I love you, too," he whispered.﻿


End file.
